


water's coming in fast

by midwestwind



Category: Jurassic World Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Moving On, Political!Claire, Post-Jurassic World, Pre-Fallen Kingdom, Romance, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15219371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwestwind/pseuds/midwestwind
Summary: maybe what they’re both refusing to acknowledge is that, after all the near-death, all the fear and shared trauma and survival instincts. they’re both exactly the same people they’ve always been.(or how things went from terrible to good to steady and back to terrible.)





	water's coming in fast

**Author's Note:**

> So, a while ago I wrote a post-movie oneshot for Jurassic World. Naturally, Fallen Kingdom destroyed that and I was just wondering how we got from the Claire and Owen we saw at the end of the movie to the ones we find in Fallen Kingdom. Which is how this happened. If you've seen the movies, obv we know this can't end happily but... it leads up to canon and we all know how that went so!
> 
> Anyway, I hope this isn't terribly OOC. I'm a little nervous about it, but I hope you enjoy it!!

 

Immediately after the island, it’s easy to cling to what feels safe, what feels familiar. Claire doesn’t know how Owen came to represent either of those things, but here he is. Freshly showered and pressing into her, tasting like the remnants of her borrowed soap and salvation.

 

Strange. But not altogether unwelcome.

 

They do what they must in the aftermath, mostly because they’re still employees of Masrani Global and they don’t have a choice. Owen grumbles that they don’t owe them anything, that they could just leave, twice a day – once in the morning when Claire is toeing into a pair of familiar high heels and once at night when one of them is pinned beneath the other, searching for friction and comfort.

 

“It’s not the company we owe it to,” she says on the days when it feels necessary to respond. When he stares at the doors to the balcony of their provided hotel room as if he may just make a break for it.

 

Owen catches her eye and she feels like a broken record. Or maybe she just feels broken.

 

Masrani Global is trying to have the island declared a sanctuary while juggling an onslaught of, entirely justifiable, lawsuits – justifiable but for the Liability Disclaimer in the Terms & Conditions listed when purchasing tickets to the park. “ _ Takes no responsibility for damages to persons or properties _ ” blah, blah, blah. Hell, Claire had approved the most recent version of the disclaimer.

 

Always read the fine print. 

 

Still, they hadn’t written something specifically to cope with the mishandling of genetic power leading to a widespread dinosaur breakout and more deaths than she’s willing to count at the moment. If only for her sanity.

 

There are people she put in harm’s way. And now there are dinosaurs –  _ animals _ , living breathing creatures whose creation she’d signed off on – abandoned to an island that may not have the resources necessary to sustain them. Disclaimer or not, there’s very little about this situation that Claire doesn’t feel responsible for.

 

Owen doesn’t say anything, never gives her a reassuring lie that this isn’t her fault. She appreciates that, but she knows his mind drifts elsewhere. After all, he left things on that island, too.

 

So, they don’t leave. They stay and do as they’re asked, deal with the legalities of it all as necessary. There are plenty of dead men to lie the blame upon – one more thing left behind on that island, the bodies of people she’d considered friends. Hoskins takes a brunt of it, which Claire is having a hard time feeling bad about, but it’s Simon’s name flecked with mud that makes her chest ache.

 

Simon with such respect and awe for these lives they had created, these creatures they’d bore. He’d always wanted her to see them more as living things. Ironic. She supposes he’d gotten his wish.

 

Owen’s protests become less sincere, more performatory, and Claire can see the lengthy stay in corporate lawsuit hell weighing on him. 

 

After the initial period of “I can’t believe we’re alive” sex had ended, it had turned into “I just want to be with you all the time” sex, and then suddenly Owen was sleeping in his own provided room most nights rather than hers. She can’t find it in herself to be offended by the change, considering the stress of their days and her own need for some alone time.

 

He still meets her for breakfast in the morning and kisses her in the elevator until she complains of smudged lipstick. So, it’s… nice. The best word she can think of to describe it during a time when absolutely nothing else is.

 

He makes her feel calm and sane, like she’s not the only person in the whole world going through what she’s going through. There’s probably something to be said for shared trauma.

 

So, they spend time together and then they spend time apart and they navigate the legalese until one day they just… don’t. Claire wakes up to an email dismissing her from further litigation and Owen checks to find a near carbon copy in his own inbox. And then they’re checked out of the hotel and sharing a cab in an unfamiliar city and it all feels very…

 

_ What now? _

 

\---

 

“We should just go, right?”

 

It could be one of the most absurd things Claire’s ever heard, but honestly she has a lot of contenders. And that’s just from the past few weeks alone.

 

“Go?” She echoes, sure she’s misunderstanding. “Go where?”

 

“Anywhere,” he insists, clutching her hands suddenly. It reminds her, almost violently, of clutched arms and fingers and shoulders as they guided each other through a park designed to be dangerous. Clinging desperately just to keep from losing the other – to the crowd, to the uneven ground, to sharp teeth hiding in the trees.

 

She pulls her hands away from his slowly, as not to hurt his feelings, pushing the memories down somewhere to be dealt with later. Or maybe never.

 

“Isn’t that one of the perks of being unemployed?” He asks, unbothered by her shaking his hands away. Instead, he opens his palms wide and gestures around himself, always somehow in control of his environment with so little effort. Claire envies him the trait. He goes on, spinning in a half circle as she crosses away from him to further explore the apartment around them, “Being able to go wherever you want, do whatever you want? Nothing to hold you back?”

 

She rolls her eyes, drifting towards the kitchen. Neither of them are particularly good cooks, but it’d still be nice to have the option. Not that the apartment search is meant to be for both of them. No, Owen prefers the secondhand van he’d purchased and the mattress in the back of it. But she’s brought him along for opinions, something he’s always brimming with.

 

And, sure, they are both unemployed. Not to mention sitting comfortable on severance checks from Masrani Global that almost certainly double as hush money. What exactly they’re afraid she’ll say, Claire isn’t certain. She barely even wants to think about Jurassic World most days. She’s miles away from signing a book deal and going on a press tour.

 

Except, they can’t stay that way forever. Claire can’t. It’s not in her bones to be listless and underworked. It’s been too many years since her last job hunt and she’s grown accustomed to the strict schedule the park provided. Maybe it isn’t the healthiest approach to life, but it’s normal for her.

 

And right now? She’s dying for something a little more normal.

 

She’s drifted into one of the two bedrooms. It’s half furnished, just enough to make it look enticing to a new tenant. Still, she moves inside and drags her fingertips over the carved wood of the footboard on the bed. It looks old and intricate, something that could have been worth something if the owner had shown it a little TLC.

 

“Claire,” Owen says softly from the doorway and her stomach tightens at the gentle way he says it, begging her to listen to him. “We could go anywhere, hell,  _ every _ where.”

 

She turns to face him, her fingers wrapping tightly around the top of the footboard. The edge of the wood bites into her palm and she sighs. If she were better at words, maybe she could explain it to him. There’s something so terrible about needing to be doing. But it’s who she is. Claire Dearing, (now ex-)Director of Operations, is stumbling her way through the longest bout of unemployment she’s faced since before college. Hell, she’d been interning with InGen since she was in her first year.

 

She doesn’t like it. It makes her feel useless.

 

Owen lets out his own sigh, shoulders slumping as he breaks eye contact, and she thinks he understands. Maybe he doesn’t, but he knows what’s stopping her at least. There’s a quiet disappointment that lingers in the air. Owen just wants her to run with him and Claire just needs him to understand why she’s tired of running.

 

“I don’t think this is the one,” he says suddenly, coming into the room to join her. His hand falls to the footboard, next to hers but not quite touching. It’s an olive branch, she thinks. A momentary white flag.

 

“Yeah, you’re right,” she nods. She thinks of his bungalow on the island, situated on the furthest cliff he could find, waves rolling against the side of it a hundred feet below.

 

When they were figuring things out, before the date that wasn’t, and they were just two people dancing around each other, trying to figure out the inexplicable way they drew towards each other, they’d sat on the bumper of his little RV and watched foam on the sea where the coast became skyline. Owen had asked her once what she thought the island looked like sixty-five million years ago. She’d thought he was joking.

 

Now, she wonders if it even would have existed. Still just a shifting plate covered by saltwater, waiting for the world to shape it into something more.

 

“Maybe something closer to the beach,” she suggests, pushing against the footboard and swaying further into his space. The corner of his mouth quirks up. “We are in California, right? Might as well take advantage.”

 

His smile widens and she catches a flash of white teeth before he kisses her.

 

“You finally gonna let me teach you how to surf?” He murmurs against her mouth, teasing her.

 

She’s absolutely not going to, but for a second the idea doesn’t sound so terrible.

 

\---

 

Claire picks out a small house in the hills. It’s stupid expensive for its size, but the view is incredible and the yard affords her more privacy than her old penthouse inside the Innovation Center had. Owen’s van becomes a fixture at the edge of her lawn and she can’t find it in herself to mind that he never parks it in the driveway.

 

She doesn’t let him teach her to surf, but he takes to going out most mornings before she wakes up. When he comes back, tasting like seawater and looking like a literal wet dream, kissing him is like rubbing up against an emory board. Stupidly, she doesn’t really mind.

 

Job hunting when your name is synonymous with one of the biggest mass disasters of recent memory is a difficult task, to say the least. Claire gives great interview, but the interactions mostly seem to go the same way.

 

“Claire Dearing,” they’ll say, slowly, as if they’re rolling her name over their tongue. Tasting and searching. Finding the scent of blood before biting down for the kill. “Why does that name seem so familiar?”

 

She’ll try to derail.  _ It’s an old family name _ or  _ Oh, you know, it’s just one of those names, I guess _ . It’s pointless, in the end. All it takes is the perusal of her previous jobs or a quick Google search and they’re pushing her out the door quicker than she can even begin damage control.

 

It’s been weeks of failed interviews and Claire is beginning to feel it, deep in her bones. A weariness that can only lead to desperation. There’s a diner a few blocks over that she and Owen are pretty fond of. She’d probably make a decent waitress.

 

“Again?” Owen asks when she comes into the house, familiar with the routine. He’s in the kitchen and she catches a whiff of mustard as she passes by, tossing her purse by the kitchen table. Owen always puts too much of the yellow condiment on his sandwiches.

 

She doesn’t answer, continuing into the adjoined living room. A large glass patio door looks out over the coast and she slumps down on the couch, staring out towards the waves lapping the shore. If she narrows her gaze just right, she almost imagines she’s back on the island.

 

“Maybe you should change your name,” he calls, unhelpfully. Cabinets are opening and closing as he returns things to their proper places. He knows the place almost better than she does at this point. It was probably silly to think she hadn’t been house hunting for two.

 

“Something similar but just different enough,” he continues and he’s coming closer now but, with her gaze still focused on the ocean beyond the glass panes, Claire really only notices when he crosses in front of her.

 

He’s not unaccustomed to her  _ bad job interview _ mood, unfortunately.

 

“How about Clara Darling?” He suggests, sinking down into the couch next to her. The freshly made sandwich is clenched dangerously in his hand, plateless. He seems to consider his own suggestion and she rolls her eyes. “No, that sounds like a Peter Pan character.”

 

Taking a bite from the sandwich, he chews thoughtfully. Dramatic enough to reach up with his free hand and stroke his chin. She bites down on the corner of her mouth.

 

“Chloe Dearden,” he suggests instead, earning a groan from her. He turns, suddenly enough that Claire fears for her nice white sofa, and stares at her wide eyed as he declares, “Charlie Danger!”

 

It finally pulls a laugh from her that’s half whine as she says, “God,  _ stop _ ! You’re terrible at this.”

 

But she’s laughing and reaching for his sandwich and she can tell from his face that he’d achieved exactly what he’d intended to.

 

\---

 

Her sister calls with varying degrees of frequency. And, in fairness, now Claire calls back. Some weeks they talk nearly every day – short calls to check in, to share a story, to ask about the boys – and sometimes Karen only calls once or twice in that month. It all depends on what there is to talk about.

 

Most calls end when Karen tries to convince her to move  _ home _ . She always uses that word, like Wisconsin has been anything more than a waystation for her in the past decade. Claire can’t recall the last time she’d been in the state for more than a week – and all of the times she does recall are either funeral or holiday related.

 

No, what Karen doesn’t understand – and Claire doesn’t have the words to tell her – is that her home is now inhabitable. Left covered in the blood and bones of friends. Overrun by dinosaurs she helped give life.

 

But mostly they don’t talk about the island, so she doesn’t say anything except that she really likes California.

 

“She just wants a live-in babysitter,” she says one night, ignoring a call from Karen. The words taste like regret as soon as they fall from her lips, because she knows they aren’t true. As much as they dance around it, her sister is lonely. She’s alone for the first time in nearly twenty years, navigating being a single parent.

 

Owen is stretched out across the couch, his head in her lap as a low fire burns in the fireplace. The sun has disappeared behind the waves outside the patio door, but the light of it hangs around, coloring the sky in varying shades of blue. Claire’s feet are propped up on the coffee table in front of her, a glass of wine sitting dangerously close to her sock covered toes.

 

He shifts, but doesn’t comment and she feels the need to correct.

 

“She’s having a hard time,” she sighs, her fingers moving through Owen’s hair absently. He hums in response – to the words or her ministrations, she’s not sure – and rolls over on the couch so he’s staring at the ceiling rather than the skyline.

 

“Divorce sucks,” he says easily and she nods. “Makes you wonder if any of the lead up is worth it.”

 

The room is quiet, save for the crackling fire, as they contemplate it for a moment. Owen’s eyes have drifted shut when Claire glances down at him, features soft from the lighting and the sleepy state the wine has put him in. She’s learned over the months that hard liquor wakes him up, makes him rough voiced and bright eyed, talking more than she thinks she’d ever heard him in one sitting on the island.

 

But, wine. Wine makes him soft and sleepy. She doesn’t know which version she prefers. Maybe she’s just growing to like all of him.

 

Finally, she shrugs and he must feel the movement of it because he blinks a few times suddenly. Like she’s woken him from the edges of sleep.

 

“I figure it probably is,” she admits. Owen doesn’t reply, but he rolls again so his nose presses against her stomach. She feels it when he presses a kiss through her thin shirt, just above her belly button. 

 

And, he doesn’t say it, but she thinks he might agree.

 

\---

 

“Claire Dearing,” the woman across from her hums, staring down at the printed resume on the table. It’s organized into one page of tabled information, only the best parts of her listed for perusal. Everything except her work history.

 

Her whole body tenses in preparation for what’s to come next.

 

“I know that name, don’t I?”

 

Dammit. Not even bothering to respond with more than an uncomfortable smile, Claire is already planning her conversation with Owen at home. He’ll want to cheer her up, like he always does. But, God, she really wanted this one to work.

 

Right now, the woman sitting across from her is essentially no one outside of the small circle she runs in. But in a few weeks, she’ll be officially declaring her campaign for state representative and then, the whole goal will be to make herself a household name.

 

It’s the first job Claire’s had the chance to interview for that feels like it could offer her the opportunity to make a difference. Alana Inez has a history of activism and a vision Claire can actually get behind. She’s no politician herself, but she’s handled a handful of them and lord knows she loves a strict schedule. Campaign manager is a job that’s just begging for her to take it.

 

It’s salt in the long festering wound that Jurassic World has left on her.

 

“I imagine it takes a very organized and focused person to successfully run operations for a trillion dollar amusement park,” Alana says, clearly having figured out where she knows Claire from.

 

Claire isn’t proud of the way she laughs aloud at the statement. A familiar creeping shame slides up her spine. It’s the least formal job interview she’s had in her search. Alana doesn’t officially have a campaign yet, so she doesn’t have an office or a staff. Finding those would be Claire’s job, if she were her campaign manager.

 

Instead, they’re sitting on the outside patio of a small coffee shop surrounded by tall buildings in downtown Los Angeles. A woman a few tables over sends them an odd look at Claire’s outburst.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head and trying to correct. “It’s just, well, I figure someone who’s about to run for office would watch the news.”

 

“What happened on that island was a tragedy,” Alana nods, sounding genuine. “And I can’t imagine the pain and fear you must still be dealing with. But I don’t think it counts out all that you managed to accomplish beforehand.”

 

Claire doesn’t know exactly what to say to that, so she doesn’t bother trying.

 

“I do believe in second chances, Ms. Dearing,” she continues after a sip of her latte. “And, being that you would be handling a political campaign, at least I know you’re already comfortable around bloodthirsty animals.”

 

When Claire laughs this time, it feels something like relief.

 

\---

 

Alana says she has a few other interviews so it’s not like Claire gets the job on the spot, but it’s the first interview she didn’t walk out of feeling terrible, so that’s something. She gets a call two days later officially offering her the position and suddenly her life is a whirlwind of spreadsheets and resumes.

 

It’s chaos but the kind she lives for. It’s a familiar kind of insanity that she can throw herself into and work to find control over.

 

It’s also the kind of chaos she can hide herself in. Owen doesn’t hesitate to call her out on it, but then again they’ve never been ones to shy away from judgement. It’s what makes them so simultaneously good and terrible for one another. The push to be more, to be better. The resentment over never being able to slip something past the other.

 

Owen isn’t working in the traditional sense, but if her money has been running low, she knows his has. Instead, he’s taken a handful of one-off jobs. He fixes people’s cars and builds their decks. Things that keep him outside, under the sun, and make him come home sunburned and covered in grease or varnish.

 

Maybe it’s judgemental, but she’s glad he’s doing  _ something _ .

 

Once the staff is built and Alana Inez is officially ready to announce her campaign, Claire has to plan the event. She’s hired a competent speech writer and locked down the venue for the press conference. It’s been weeks in the making, but it isn’t until the night before that Owen decides to question her.

 

“Are you sure about this?” He asks as she stands in front of her closet, weighing the pros and cons of pairing her black pumps with the jeans for tomorrow.

 

“The shoes?” She asks, not understanding. “I mean, I’ve done worse in heels, right? But I don’t want to look overdressed. I’m just not sure if–”

 

“Not your shoes, Claire,” he says and it’s halfway to snapping at her, so she turns to stare at him. He lets himself fall back onto the bed, his legs hanging off the edge where he’d been sitting, watching her. Frustration rolls off of him.

 

“Okay,” she says slowly, taking careful steps to join him on the bed. “Then what?”

 

She eases onto the matress, tucking her legs underneath her. Her knees settle next to his ribcage and he sits up enough to face her, one hand falling over her thigh. Calloused fingers stroke over smooth skin, the feeling familiar. When they’d first started… whatever this was back then, she’d wondered if she’d like his hands on her. Rough skin, calloused and scarred and usually covered in grease or dirt or god knows what considering how much time he spent around those raptors.

 

But, now, she likes it about him. Something that is so unequivocally  _ him _ . Sometimes, after he’s spent a day staining wood, it takes days to fully wash the color from his skin. Leaving it a splotchy mess of uneven tan and dark wood varnish. He never seems to mind.

 

“Are you sure it’s such a good idea to be turning yourself into a public figure right now?” He asks. “Don’t you think it could be tempting fate?”

 

“Fate, Owen?” She sighs, a little patronizingly. “Come on.”

 

“I’m just  _ saying _ that right now, with the Masrani Global witch hunt that’s happening,” he presses on. “It might not be the safest thing for you to be doing.”

 

She raises an eyebrow and leans forward until she’s hovering over him on the bed. Smirks teasingly and asks, “Since when do you worry about what’s  _ safe _ ?”

 

“I’m trying to be serious,” he says and she frowns, pulling away from him to slide off the mattress, away from his touch completely.

 

“I thought you were excited for me,” she says. “I really feel like this is good for me and I thought you understood that. That you supported me.”

 

“Hey, hey,” he says, sitting up and holding his hands out, palms towards her. He’s trying to stave off an argument, but she can’t help but glare at the familiar gesture. Like she’s some man eating beast he’s been tasked with teaching to follow commands.

 

He must realize, because he drops his hands before he continues. “I am going to support you, no matter what. But I’m also going to worry about you.”

 

“You don’t have to,” she tries to argue, rolling her eyes at the connotations of the words. She’s not fragile or incapable. He doesn’t need to keep trying to protect her from some perceived monster around the corner.

 

The only monsters here are the ones that live on in their minds. And no one is coming to save them from those.

 

“I know but I’m just going to, alright?” He says, cutting her off as he pushes off the bed. “It’s one of the unfortunate side effects of loving someone.”

 

It’s the first time either of them have said it, though, Claire figures it’s not for lack of feeling it. But they’re both just stumbling their way through things and these kinds of things? They don’t come as naturally as she’d hoped they would. Owen, who dislikes people, and her, who’s been an island for so long she hadn’t even realized she was one.

 

They were never going to make this easy on themselves.

 

He’s standing in front of the bed now, his hands fidgeting against his thighs before slipping into the pockets of his sweatpants. Claire moves towards him, her own hands moving slowly over his biceps, soothingly.

 

“I love you,” she says quietly, surprised at how easily the words come. Like maybe she should have said them months ago. Owen doesn’t move, barely reacts but for his eyes moving over her face. “But I am tired of being scared. I’m tired of running. This work? It’s good and it means something. I’m not saying it won’t be difficult, and Alana and I have already worked out a contingency plan for if the press is more interested in me than her campaign, but I’m up for the challenge.”

 

Owen doesn’t say anything for a long moment and Claire begins to feel suddenly, terribly like he won’t understand. She’s never needed his permission, but she’s grown to appreciate his support. After everything that’s happened, having someone to lean on has been incredibly nice. For years, she’d been an island and maybe she still doesn’t talk to her sister enough or have any real friends.

 

But it feels like, if she’s still on an island, it’s not just her anymore.

 

Instead of responding, one of his arms comes around her waist. He tugs her flush against him, his lips covering her own, and her fingers dig into the flesh of his arms. She kisses him eagerly, pressing herself further against him.

 

When he eases them back down onto the mattress, his mouth moving down the column of her throat, he pulls back just for a moment to say, “I love you, too.”

 

And Claire figures this kind of island might not be so bad.

 

\---

 

It’s not that the press doesn’t care that a former Masrani employee who had a hand in the disaster on Isla Nublar is managing a major campaign. It’s just that Claire’s strategy of making herself as uninteresting to them as possible works almost better than she expects.

 

She supposes that in a world where this is the third dinosaur-related disaster in as many decades, if she isn’t willing to give them dirty details, then it isn’t really worth their time. It’s a nice feeling to slip slowly into the depths of obscurity once more.

 

Owen doesn’t question her on it anymore, but she can tell he’s still wary. He doesn’t attend events with her and, eventually, she stops inviting. She thinks her staff thinks the boyfriend she mentions offhand now and again is made up.

 

Once the footwork starts, Owen offers his van to cart a group of staffers around to knock on doors. Claire appreciates the help, rather than having to rent a bus out of the low campaign funds. Claire insists on paying the gas money out of the funds, but it’s still cheaper in the end. Owen only agrees to the compromise when she’s halfway through booking a bus if he won’t.

 

Alana is a nearly flawless candidate. She handles press conferences and interviews with grace and easily charms nearly every constituent they talk to. It never feels like campaigning  _ for _ her, so much as with her. In ways, it reminds Claire of working with Simon. Someone who is so clearly her boss, but makes her feel like a part of the process. Makes her feel like a friend.

 

She thinks of him more and more as she works alongside Alana.

 

Right after the Indominus disaster, the dreams had been nearly unbearable. For the both of them, she knows. They’d talk about them, but never in detail, only right in the moments following. When the words kept coming, but didn’t say anything, and desperation had their fingers digging into the other. Searching for comfort. Searching for salvation.

 

Searching for forgiveness.

 

In Claire’s case, at least. She’s not sure Owen feels any culpability for what happened, none of it was his fault, after all. He’d only been pulled along for the ride by her own failure, her own ineptitude. Maybe if she’d spent the day with her nephews. Maybe if she’d called Control before leaving the paddock.

 

Sometimes that’s what the dreams are. Beautiful what-ifs where she does everything right. It never matters, though. Inevitably it turns to teeth and tails and total anarchy. To helicopters toppling from the sky and the cold dread of not knowing whether Owen had made it out of that paddock or not.

 

She’s never talked to him about it, but she thought about it a lot in the following days. Walking into the quiet control room – too quiet, the way a funeral or a storm shelter is quiet. Chaos in the calm. People were dead. She didn’t need to ask, she could see it on every face. But they didn’t know who, couldn’t know how many. There was an asset – the biggest, baddest asset they’d ever created – out of containment.

 

She hadn’t known whether to grieve or to pray.

 

It had only been minutes before he’d come through the elevator doors seething and reeking of gasoline. She couldn’t be appropriately grateful for his continued breathing because he was glaring at her like she’d led him to his death herself. And hadn’t she?

 

So the dreams came and they took turns holding each other, soothing each other. Searching for each other in a dark room just to be certain of their existence. Some nights she woke to her mind convinced that he’d never made it out of the paddock, never made it past the raptors he’d raised.

 

“I’m here,” he’d whisper, lips to her temple, calloused fingers stroking over the skin revealed by her tank top. “I’m okay.”

 

She’d do the same for him. On nights when he woke with her name on his lips, a startled gasp and seeking fingers as he searched for her in the darkness. She doesn’t know how it happened in his dreams, but there were plenty of possibilities to choose from. So many different ways they each should have died but, through some miracle, hadn’t.

 

They’d taper off and for a while, it’d be a cycle. Dreams. No dreams. Weeks at a time. Until, eventually, they weren’t strong enough to wake them. Weren’t the only memories their subconscious minds had to pull from.

 

It didn’t feel like forgetting – Claire doubts that’ll ever be possible – but, maybe, healing? Or an approximation of it.

 

So when the dreams suddenly start coming back, scary and realistic enough to force her from sleep with a cry tearing her throat and tears in her eyes, it’s startling to say the least. Claire swears she can smell decaying flesh, something dead festering away around her. Owen suggests it’s the stress, maybe she should take some time off.

 

She begins to think the only decay is within herself. The memories of the dead and never-to-be-buried decaying in her mind, turning to mold and adipose and forcing her to remember. Never allowing her to move forward.

 

But the dreams get worse and the smell gets stronger. Owen begins to notice it as well and they contemplate the possibility of a shared delusion. When one shakes her so terribly it has her retching in the bathroom with the door locked and Owen pleading to let him help on the other side, he finds a different way of helping.

 

Under the twilight, she sits in an empty bathtub with her arms wrapped around herself. Owen tears the back porch apart until he finds the dead racoon sequestered beneath, turning to bones beneath their feet.

 

The dreams subside with the smell. Owen rebuilds the torn up portions of the porch.

 

\---

 

Claire can sense him becoming listless.

 

The election draws closer and she’s busier than she’s been in almost a year. It’s also the most normal she’s felt since the incident, something to do to preoccupy her time. It also means she goes through periods of not seeing Owen nearly at all. Between events to plan and interviews to oversee and the final stretches of campaigning, he’s given up and gone to bed before she’s finished working most nights.

 

He still wants to go. Get in that God awful van of his and drive until he finds something new. Claire isn’t sure she’s going to be enough to stay for soon.

 

Miraculously, she hits a lull. Things wind down before they’re going to get hit with a mad dash of last stretch campaign efforts. So, she asks for a few days off and Alana is almost too happy to agree.

 

“You work hard, Claire, and you work well,” she says. “But that can’t be the only thing you do.”

 

Claire decides not to tell her that she doesn’t really know who she is without the work anymore. She’d built her identity around the park and her schedule and then, suddenly, she didn’t have any of it anymore. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling and, yeah, maybe throwing herself into a new kind of work is a pisspoor coping mechanism but, well. She’s just trying to survive.

 

Regardless, Alana mentions a cabin she and her family rents in the mountains and suggests she look into it. Claire does. She finds one surrounded by towering redwoods and stuck between rolling hills and a sparkling lake. The photos on the website are so nice, she swears she can smell the fresh air.

 

She books a five day stay and decides not to tell Owen.

 

Some fresh air. A change of scenery. Five days with just the two of them. It could be exactly what they need right now. She’s willing to give a little.

 

“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?” He asks, leaning against the side of the van as she loads prepacked bags and groceries into the back. She had refused to let him help her pack, so he’s refusing to help her load. Because she’s dating a child.

 

“All you need to know,” she huffs, finally sliding the side door of the van shut. Owen shifts just enough to be out of her way and no more. “Is that we’re taking five days off from everything and that you’re going to  _ like _ this surprise. So, stop pouting.”

 

“I don’t pout,” he pouts and she rolls her eyes at him. When she holds her hand out to him, palm up, he stares at her like she’s offering him the keys to mosasaurus paddock and suggesting they take a swim.

 

“What does that mean?” He asks and she resists the very childish urge to stamp her foot in annoyance. She is  _ trying _ to do something nice. Can’t he make anything easy?

 

“Give me the keys,” she instructs. “I’m driving.”

 

“No, you’re not,” he laughs.

 

“You don’t know where we’re going,” she argues. “And I’m a very good driver.”

 

He raises his eyebrows at her and she knows he’s thinking of an armored truck bouncing down a dirt road, a mix of raptor and human blood smeared along the side. Which is a totally unfair assessment of her driving ability. Extenuating circumstances and all that.

 

“Just give me the damn keys,” she sighs. Slow as he can, Owen fishes them out of the pocket of his jeans and reluctantly hands them over. Claire rounds the van to the driver’s side while he slides into the passenger seat.

 

They only make it a few miles before Owen annoys her into letting him drive while she directs him. Which totally ruins the surprise, but whatever.

 

\---

 

At the least, she can tell she’s made a good choice when they get there. Owen seems surprised by the gesture, but she knows the olive branch of it isn’t missed. She uses the key they’d picked up to unlock the cabin, listing off an itemized agenda of how they should unpack, but Owen has other ideas.

 

They’re barely over the threshold before he’s grabbing her by the wrist and spinning her around. He pins her against the closest flat surface, his mouth hot and needy against hers. All thoughts of unpacking and groceries left in the hot van fade from her mind as she presses up against him.

 

“This was a good idea,” he comments as his mouth moves from her lips to follow the line of her jaw. She hums in agreement, pulling him closer until she’s flat against the wall behind her and he’s molded against her body.

 

His hands explore like it’s the first time, searching and seeking, pushing her t-shirt up just enough to reveal the smooth skin of her stomach. Rough, familiar fingers move over bare skin and she pants against him from the small touches.

 

“Missed you,” he murmurs against her shoulder, his scruff tickling the juncture of her shoulder.

 

They live together. They share the same bed. Every morning she kisses him before she walks out the door. But, when he says the words, she understands what he means. They’ve been missing each other for months, just a touch out of sync as she carved herself a new, but familiar, rut and he tried so desperately to keep himself from falling into it with her.

 

Her hands come up, cradling his jaw in her palms and pulling gently until she can see his face. The tenderness she finds nearly breaks her and she always wonders, for a moment, when she catches him watching her like that, what he could possibly find so worthy.

 

“I miss you, too,” she says and they don’t comment on the present tense, but she knows he catches it. When he kisses her again, she knows he understands.

 

\---

 

Claire wakes to the sun setting outside the bedroom window and takes a moment remember where she’d fallen asleep. At some point, the heat must have become too much because the sheet she’d pulled around herself is tossed away and Owen opened the windows in the room. The henley he’d worn for the drive out is balled up on the floor just inside the door to the bedroom and she pulls that over herself as she ventures further through the cabin.

 

All the windows are open, letting a warm breeze move through the spaces as she moves through them in search of Owen. The kitchen is fully stocked with the food she’d packed, knowing they wouldn’t want to have to leave for groceries once they’d reached their destination.

 

It isn’t until she gives up on the inside of the cabin and ventures out onto the raised porch outside that she finds him. Standing a few yards in front of the cabin, looking out towards the lake in front of him. The setting sun bathes him in orange light, making him look like a spray tan monstrosity in his mismatched swim trunks and half buttoned flannel.

 

An absolute disaster, but he couldn’t care less. Maybe it’s why she likes him so much.

 

She leans against the frame of the porch and just watches him for a while.

 

“You know,” he calls, startling her only because she hadn’t thought he’d heard her come outside. “On the island, I could climb up on my bungalow and see half the beach, the ocean going on for days. Part of the park beyond my little cliff, mostly just the top of the Innovation Center but, you know, still. I never thought I’d see a better view than that.”

 

“I know what you mean,” she sighs, thinking of her own apartment, hidden up in the top levels of the Innovation Center. The whole park sprawling beneath her on one side and the ocean on the other.

 

“But this,” he concludes, turning around to face her. The shadow of the cabin covers him from the harsh sunlight now, but the colors of the sky still reflect off the lake behind him. He looks her over and continues, “The island couldn’t hold a candle to this.”

 

She tilts her head at him, lifting one shoulder to rub her cheek over the soft material of her stolen shirt.

 

“Yeah,” she admits. “It’s not terrible, huh?”

 

He lets out a low chuckle at her and finally crosses back to the porch to meet her, hanging for a moment at the bottom of the steps to look up at her. She shifts, aware of the sight she must be and very glad she’d chosen such a secluded spot for their small vacation.

 

“Thanks for this,” he says quietly, moving slowly up the steps towards her. Claire shrugs, waving off the gratitude but he gives her a look for it. “I’m serious, alright? I know we’re not out in the woods with no cellphone reception because it’s what  _ you _ wanted to do.”

 

She bites down on her lip, feeling a little caught. Yeah, she’s never really been the type to enjoy roughing it. Not that she  _ can’t _ , she just prefers not to. But Owen thrives in a place like this. They’ve been here a few hours and he already seems more relaxed, more comfortable.

 

It hurts her a little bit that she hasn’t seen him this way in their home in a while. It’s hard not to wonder whose fault that is.

 

“Look, I know that things have been crazy lately,” she says, looking away from him and towards the lake instead. Familiar insecurities bubble in her chest, warm and suffocating as they expand within her lungs.  “And I know that it can make me… a little hard to live with, but I wanted to–”

 

“Hey,” he cuts her off suddenly, hurrying up the steps to her. His hands come up to either side of her face, tilting her jaw until he can catch her gaze.

 

Her stomach twists nervously, caught in the familiar gaze and unable to let herself break it again. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a crooked smile and it settles something in her. Just a bit. Enough. 

 

“It’s not you,” he says quietly and it doesn’t feel like the truth but it’s not a lie either.

 

Maybe what they’re both refusing to acknowledge is that, after all the near-death, all the fear and shared trauma and survival instincts. They’re both exactly the same people they’ve always been. She, always too much, and he, never quite enough. What a pair.

 

Because, the thing about that rut she’s built is she  _ likes it _ . Claire thrives with a schedule and some semblance of control over it. The unknown is nearly unbearable for her.

 

And Owen. Owen has always been a part of the unknown.

 

She nods at him, wondering just how well he can read her, but presses up on her toes and kisses him anyway. His hands move down over the material of his shirt covering her body until he reaches the hem, calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass. And then she’s up in the air, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he presses her back against the door frame.   
  


She bites down on his lip and he licks into her mouth and they always seem to work here, at least.

 

“We’re gonna be fine,” he murmurs once they’re panting and she is oh- _ so _ -grateful for the lack of neighbors considering how she’d been calling his name moments ago. He settles her carefully back on her feet and she nods, wondering if either of them actually believe ‘fine’ is a thing they’re capable of anymore.

 

“I noticed you unpacked the van,” she comments, instead. “Thank you.”

 

“Well,” he shrugs. “Had to find something to do. I wasn’t sure you were ever gonna wake up.”

 

“I was not asleep that long,” she argues, but he’s smirking at her and ducking down just a little to hold eye contact, trying to rile her up.

 

“Thought maybe you’d slipped into a coma,” he teases, tilting his head as he studies her face. “Here, let me check your pupils.”

 

She swats his hands away as he attempts to tilt her head.

 

“Oh,  _ please _ ,” she scoffs, turning away from him to head back inside. “You are so conceited. You really think sex with you is good enough to be  _ coma _ -inducing?”

 

“No,” he says lowly, the words rough right next to her ear as he follows her into the cabin. “I think sex with  _ us _ is that good.”

 

And – when he crowds against her from behind, arms coming around her to hold her fast to his chest as he kisses her neck and she’s already considering another round – she figures it wouldn’t do any good to argue the point anyway.

 

\---

 

There’s probably something to be said for the calm before the storm. After all, popular expressions and cliches exist for a reason. Sure, people claim to hate them but, well, here she is. Living proof.

 

Not that it hits like a tornado or anything. After their break from the routine, Owen starts to relax more even as Claire’s schedule kicks into high gear. The homestretch of the campaign begins and she’s packed with campaigning and voter registration events.

 

But she’s also realizing that, once the campaign ends, she’ll be job hunting once again. The new schedule she’s created for herself will empty out and she’s trying not to think about what that means for her. She begins floating her resume around, putting out feelers for something more long term.

 

The idea of finding herself without anything to do for a long stretch of time tickles some deep seated anxiety within her.

 

Owen mentions the end of it all every once in a while as if it means a vacation. Like she could just take a break, put her feet up, enjoy the lack of purpose. She hates the idea but doesn’t know how to put it into the proper words to make it understandable.

 

“Have you thought about applying to some home building firms?” She asks one day as he’s scrubbing grease off of his fingers in the kitchen sink. He’s spent the afternoon hidden underneath the van in the yard, tuning up God knows what. The cleaning is useless, she knows the creases of his fingers and nail beds will be colored black for a few days still.

 

“Nah, I kind of like just taking it one job at a time,” he shrugs. “Plus, after the election, there won’t really be anything tying us here, right? Could give us a little freedom to just see what happens next.”

 

She sighs, familiar with the ensuing argument at this point.

 

“Hey, no, just hear me out,” he presses before she can say anything, shutting the water off and reaching for the dish towel. “I’ve been thinking about it, you know. We could drive for a while, see where we end up. Maybe we could head north, find a lake and some mountains, a cabin. See what happens.”

 

“It sounds like a fantasy,” she says and she means it as more of a childish dream than a fairytale ending.

 

Owen’s jaw moves in agitation, working as he tries to respond – or bites back what he really wants to say. He’s never had trouble saying exactly what he thinks before and, even if she wouldn’t like it, she hates that he’s holding back now.

 

He tosses the dish towel onto the counter and turns away from her before he says, “Yeah, I guess it is.”

 

\---

 

A week and a half before the election, she’s standing in the middle of the campaign office with a handful of volunteers as they make phone calls. There are a few TVs tuned to different news stations mounted on the pillars in the office. The volume on each is turned low, as not to distract from conversations, but she startles as a familiar sight flickers across one.

 

She pushes off of the desk she’d been leaning on, talking with a volunteer, and gravitates towards the television. A breaking news banner moves across the bottom of the screen, but she barely registers the words flickering past as shaky helicopter footage of the wreckage of her old home covers the rest of the screen.

 

“Claire?” Someone calls in question behind her, but it sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Like she’s suddenly been dropped into the middle of the ocean, struggling for air.

 

The office quiets – or maybe she only imagines that it does – as she turns the volume on the single TV up enough to make out the words of the news anchor.

 

“…long dormant, but recent earthquakes along the island have led volcanologists to believe Mt. Sibo could be considered active again. They are still attempting to study the island to determine a threat level. There has been no statement yet from Masrani Global as to what this could mean for the animals confined to the island, but the company has been steeped in legal battles over the past year and a half following the tragic events…”

 

Claire mutes the TV again, the sound of the anchors perfect accent becoming too much to bear. When she turns, she realizes nearly every pair of eyes in the room has turned to her. Straightening her shoulders, she sets the remote down on the nearest desk and holds her chin high.

 

“Get back to work please,” she instructs. “We’re on borrowed time.”

 

It’s a poor choice of words, maybe, but no one seems to mind. She tries to put all thoughts of volcanoes and islands and dinosaurs from her mind.

 

Owen catches sight of her laptop open on the kitchen table as they move around each other, pulling dishes and opening wine to go with dinner. It’s not like she was hiding it. Leaving it open, unlocked, in plain sight would be about the worst way to do that. But she hadn’t realized she’d left the article she’d been reading open when he’d called her to come help pick out a bottle to pair.

 

He gives a sigh and she turns to find him, staring across the counter at the brightly lit screen. Mt. Sibo covers the top half of it. An old photo, taken by a photographer for the Associated Press, before the volcano was active. Before the island had become inhabited by dinosaurs alone.

 

“I heard about it on the radio today,” he admits and she nods. He hadn’t mentioned it, but neither had she. They do a lot of that lately – not mentioning it.

 

“They’re trying to estimate a time frame for eruption,” she explains, turning away to reach for two glasses to fill with water.

 

“It could be years from now,” he comments.

 

“Could be months,” she argues, setting the glasses of ice water next to the empty wine glasses and rounding the kitchen island to close her laptop and set it aside. She continues, “Everyone’s waiting on Masrani Global to make a statement about the future of the dinosaurs.”

 

“ _ Future of the dinosaurs _ ,” he echoes derisively and she bristles at the dark way he chuckles, turning to find him slicing into grilled cuts of meat. Feeling her gaze, he looks back around at her, studying her for a minute.

 

Whatever he finds must not be what he wants to see.

 

“Oh, come on,” he groans, setting the carving tools down to face her completely.

 

“What?” She asks, unappreciative of his tone towards whatever he thinks she’s thinking.

 

“You can’t help them, Claire,” he sighs. “It’s not your job anymore.”

 

She blanches, surprised at the attitude coming from him. He had been the one preaching to her that these creatures are living breathing things, not meant to be owned or controlled by corporations. And now – what? No sympathy for the animals they’d created, raised, and abandoned?

 

“Don’t we have a responsibility to try?”

 

“No,” he says easily. “My responsibility to anything on that island ended the day we left.”

 

Claire really doubts he believes that. She turns away from him, reaching for the laptop she’d just set aside and letting herself digest his words. Reaching up, she tucks her hair behind her ear and turns for the hallway to the stairs.

 

“You know, I… I actually have a lot of work to do and I’m not feeling very hungry right now,” she says glancing up just in time to see the way his shoulders drop, the disappointment that flashes over his face.

 

“Hey, Claire, no,” he tries, but she shakes her head.

 

“No, really, I just remembered I still have a whole list of things to get done,” she insists, moving past him and ignoring the gentle touch to her elbow. “Just leave me some leftovers for later.”

 

He doesn’t protest further and she figures that’s probably a bad sign, but she’s already climbing the stairs to the bedroom and thinking about the work she does need to get done. Still, she spends two hours refreshing her news apps, unsure of what exactly she’s hoping to hear.

 

\---

 

As is becoming their typical way of things, she and Owen don’t talk about the island or the fight it had caused. Instead, they move around each other like it’s normal. But it feels like walking on ground that’s suddenly, inexplicably shifted. Like trying to keep your balance when the ground you knew has been tilted.

 

Nothing changes, but it’s not the same either.

 

The election passes in a blur and Owen sticks with her the whole night, moving around the campaign office as poll results filter in, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly when they appear less than favorable for Alana.

 

When she wins, Claire squeezes Owen so tightly she thinks he might bruise. But he buries his face in her neck and lifts her until only her toes touch the floor.

 

It’s a few days after the election, when Claire is once again trying to figure out  _ what now _ , that Masrani releases a statement about the ensuing eruption from Mt. Sibo. The animals on the island have created their ecosystem and it is outside of Masrani Global’s culpability or ability to intervene in any way. Claire nearly tosses her phone against the nearby wall in frustration.

 

“Forget about it Claire,” Owen says and she knows he’s trying to help, or at least he thinks he is. But how can he just not care? How can he feel no responsibility, no remorse for the life they’re all just condemning to death?

 

Not just death. Extinction.

 

It’s like the world’s worst practical joke. The animals they had raised from the recesses of history, once more left to the same fate. A vicious cycle of tragedy.

 

“How am I supposed to do that?” She asks, more tired than angry. So exhausted with the situation she has no control over, no hand in. So, why does she feel as if she’s doing nothing when she should be doing everything?

 

Owen is quiet for a long moment and then he says, “The lease is up at the end of the month.”

 

“What?” She breathes.

 

“Maybe a change of scenery would help, you know,” he shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it and we could rent a storage unit for the furniture that’s yours and anything that can’t fit in the van. We could just drive for a while, forget about everything.”

 

“You are unbelievable,” she breathes, irritation growing and turning hot in her chest.

 

“I’m just offering a solution,” he insists but that can’t be a solution. Running from every problem, from every bad feeling, that can’t be how they live their lives. Maybe he can’t handle the permanence she craves, but she can’t be an aimless wanderer like him.

 

“I can’t keep doing this,” she says, her fingers pressing against her eyelids until it begins to hurt. It’s better, she thinks, than the rest of the pain she’s feeling.

 

“Doing what?” Owen asks, the words coming out on a ragged breath and that hurts too. They knew where this was going. They had to. Just because they’d managed to convince themselves for a while that it could work, it can’t.

 

Claire doesn’t think they love each other more than their differences.

 

“Nothing,” she cries, her hands falling from her face. “I can’t keep doing nothing!”

 

“It’s not nothing,” he argues, but she’s tired and she’s angry. And she’s  _ sad _ God dammit! Sad for where this is heading, sad for the lives she couldn’t save then and the ones she doesn’t know how to save now.

 

It’s exhausting.

 

“It’s  _ running _ ,” she bites, throwing her hands out in front of her. “You have been trying to run from everything since we got back.”

 

“I’m not running,” he tries, but she doesn’t even think he believes it. “It’s not… I don’t want to run from you.”

 

She bites down so hard on her lip it hurts and she has to look away from him. What if it’s just not enough?

 

“You know what, Owen?” She says, moving away from him, too close together on their big couch for the conversation they’re gearing towards. “If you want to go live in your van like a bum, go ahead. I’m tired of being the one who’s forcing you to stay.”

 

She pushes off of the couch, tired with the conversation for the night. He doesn’t say anything as she moves past him for the hallway, but she can see the way he’s tensed up at her words.

 

Claire can’t decide if she regrets them or not.

 

\---

 

She doesn’t expect to wake up alone, but she’s not surprised by it. Owen’s van isn’t in the yard and she’s not really surprised by that either. It surprises her when he doesn’t come back by the afternoon, when she opens the closet to find half of it empty.

 

She thinks about the conversation from the night before and…

 

Maybe it shouldn’t surprise her.

 

\---

 

Only a few days after Masrani’s statement, Benjamin Lockwood’s estate puts out their own statement urging Congress to do something about the species left in danger on Isla Nublar. It’s the first thing Lockwood’s estate has put out since the incident nearly two years ago. Claire is shocked by the press release, but it starts something in her as well.

 

She begins digging for any sort of legislation that would force the government into some sort of action with regards to endangered species. When she can’t find any, she uses some of the contacts from the campaign and reaches out to wildlife protection groups in search of further information.

 

At the end of the month, she gives her lease up and finds a tiny one-bedroom apartment in downtown Sacramento. What she has saved up between the leftovers from her Masrani payout and her paychecks from Alana, she uses to rent a small office space on the fifth floor of a rundown building.

 

She calls around to a few familiar friends from Alana’s team and finds some like-minded people to help out. Within a few months, they’ve gotten a sponsor for a Congressional bill to save the animals on Isla Nublar.

 

“This dinosaur protection group,” an opposing congressman sneers on TV one day, commenting on the lobbyist group behind the push to save the dinosaurs.

 

Claire just decides to run with it.


End file.
